Sunday

the Sunday papers stacked.
the table strewn with crap.
beer stains, wine bottles,
and whisky fumes.

book open
at the poems
of Langston Hughes.

Loving You is Hard

Loving you is hard you know.
Like falling into the sky,
Powerless in the face
Of vast beauty.
It is a love that is still,
Glistening and quiet.

Loving you hurts sometimes.
A wound to the muscle.
It gives the heart a leather skin;
Strong, with the scent
Of a brave animal.

Loving you takes patience, I know.
The gradual music of effort.
And loving you is vigorous,
Makes the mind focused
And calloused
Like an artist’s finger.

Old Man

old man’s reflection in the window
the shape of his tatty hat
as he pauses over my shoulder
fixing his wallet
in the early drizzle

Step into Yourself

Step into yourself.
Take a risk towards bliss,
And prime your mind
With the breath of
God.

Take bravery
Like a baby
In your hands,
And kiss his
Delicate,
Flammable skin.

Speak proud,
In bold meters.
Your voice is a blade,
It cuts through
The black shapes
That cower in corners.

Your words are stones,
Smooth and perfect
In your mouth.
Don’t be afraid
Of your own noise.
Trees don’t fear their
Own laughter,
And fire takes pleasure
In its crackle.

Be ready to burn.
Open your heart
The way life parts
Its lips,
Birthing itself like a
Soundless bomb.

Girl

Your hair is the colour of night,
With dark curls whispering magic.
Your skin is like the terracotta sun,
So rich it makes Titian jealous.

Edinburgh Song

Knowledge casts winter shapes,
As the sky’s theatre rumbles over.
Romanian beggars plot escape,
Chasing the pavement’s icy whisper.

Spirits get crushed in the rush,
Squeezing through the torture.
Women have all but given up on dreams,
- heroes fear the future.

A tired homeless primadonna,
Reads poems on the corner.
He claims to have love’s secret
In the strings of his guitar.

Caffeine and citrus.
Lips stained with turmeric.
All the king’s horses
Struggle with loneliness
Though their hearts are in the right place.

And smartarses wrestle
With the mathematics of the city.
They grasp at the map
Using the landmarks only they can see.

Philosophers gather,
Huddled and haunted together,
They talk like wooden ghosts
They are careful what they wish for.

Us

There are two sorts of love.
The first one burns. It tears
Bits of life off in its hunger,
Swallows everything
In jealous kisses.

The second is a blossom.
It has no need for food
But is the root-spark of
Grass, wind and touch.

This love is a patient
Steady passion, like a
Father’s cuddle.
It is God’s glance,
Warm like sunlight on
Your neck, or the tickle
Of the tide on your ankles

At once embracing
And unleashing
In short joyful rhythms.

Love is genius,
Or else romance
- Red-lipped and polished.
Love is you.
Spontaneous, gentle, childish.
It is your laughter,
That spreads like a morning sky
With its shifting pallet of pastel
Colours.

Love is us.
Nourishment.
A readiness to flower,
Even in erratic moods
And hard weather,
Which will crack us open
And blend our tongues.

Goo Morning Kerouac

When I think of you I always cry,
Feel something speak in my spine
A shudder of darkness in the bones
Tears of heartbreak and hope condensed
A breeze in the flesh that hurts
A lapse in the distractions
How do I organise this panic?
This criminal noise that dements
The organs of love, dehydrates
The soul?

I feel close to you most
When I have a crooked neck
Waking up on some random couch
With blood on my face and fur on my tongue
And weird women shouting piously in
The dregs of a dream,
I can hear you in the birds’ songs
Those short bursts of thoughtless haiku
That echo like the grey cloud
Quiet giant alien minds that spread
Their foam over the complex chaos and seem to laugh.

I feel you now
As my radar eyes go inward
And seek truth by turning inside out
The concept of meaning
The music of the mind’s story
That let all these riotous impatient
Sex driven angry ambitions
Writhe together in a shameful mud,
The blood of the subconscious
Like an orgy of rodents
Parasite ideas feeding on a flood


I feel you now
At my breakfast poison
Overloaded and undernourished
Darting between piety and profane chocolate hopes
Searching for the sweetness of the right words
To capture this lighting moment in consciousness
Trying to bottle the sunlight
And taste the morning’s salty fresh whisper
Trying for all it’s worth and trying some more
Hungry for light, a bible to sing from
Some escape from all this rattling sarcasm
Something to tonic the way the city burns.

I feel you now in this tragic flourish
Your Buddha eyes closed
Hiding a catholic candle-lit beauty
A spotless beauty, breathless spirit
You who knocked through walls
Who broke down atoms to their gassy facts
Who burned through skies roaring wolf like
And kissed everything furiously
And photographed infinity between your words.

I feel you now Jack Kerouac
I too am dishevelled
I too am sacred and sun-struck
I too feel god in the screech of the street
In the black oily blood of the road
And see her in the dead eyes of old men
Hear it in the voices of drunken idols
Gasping for the answers.
I too am drunk on this insignificance.

some "haikus"

pissing under
a holy bulb,
brief enlightenment.



the blossom forms
an heavenly archway;
pink, white and fresh green.



she's got eyes
like antique wood,
hair like a witch's forest.



pinkish light
on the sandstone.
the air
still moist with spring